Miscellaneous Prompts
by JR Granger
Summary: Short Sterek fics based on prompts I've found on Tumblr. P.S. If you have any you want to see just hit me up here or on Tumblr.
1. Fate Led Me to Your Car - Or the Cops

"You were chased by the cops, got in my car and just yelled 'Drive!'" AU

There's a stitch in his side and he's running out of breath, but if Stiles stops now the voices will catch up with him – the ones yelling for him to "stop" because they're the "Sheriff's department". And he sure as hell ain't gonna stop because if he does his dad is gonna kill him _again_.

Just when the deputies are starting to gain on him – he's been too busy studying to keep up with exercising, okay? – he spots a car that just started up, so he pulls the backdoor open, dives in, and yells, "Drive!"

The guy in the front seat sputters for a few seconds before he gets out, "What the hell are you doing in my car?"

Stiles struggles into a sitting position and sticks his head between the seats to glare at the driver – the _hot as Lucifer's balls sack_ driver. "Does it matter? You were about to leave anyway, so just _drive_." He looks out the back window and sees the deputies a few feet away, heading straight for the car. " _Please._ "

Grumbling, the guy pulls out of his parallel-parked position like an expert and starts driving down Central. Stiles looks out the back windshield until the deputies are tiny specks. When he's sure they're a good distance away he climbs over the console and into the passenger seat, putting on his seatbelt then turning to the driver with a sheepish grin.

"Hey," he says, going for nonchalant and missing it by a mile. "So thanks for the getaway."

The guy looks over for a second, huffing. "Yeah, how is it I ended up being your getaway driver? More importantly, _why_ were they after you in the first place?"

Stiles grimaces and scrubs a hand through his hair. "So I may have been caught pranking an old buddy from high school – well," he corrects, "buddy would be putting it generously, more like old rival, but we're kinda frenemies now I guess?" He shrugs. "Isaac and I get along for Ally's sake anyway."

"Okay…" the guy says, clearly thrown off by Stiles just like everyone else. Or he just doesn't care because Stiles is rambling again; that tends to happen a lot too.

"We can't get too friendly though, so we've been playing pranks on each other for a few years. Problem is I didn't have my lookout tonight – Scotty was too busy macking on Lyds – so I got caught, which cannot happen because if I get arrested now, when it'll end up on my record, my dad will kill me." Stopping to take a breath, Stiles looks over and sees a blank, overwhelmed look at the guy's face – so he is listening then!

Stiles laughs and waves it off with a hand. "Anyway, so that's how I ended up using you as my getaway – which, sorry about that but yours was the closest running car and they were gaining on me. I'm Stiles by the way."

"Derek…" the guy – Derek says after a few seconds.

"Nice to meet you, Derek," Stiles grins and he swears he sees a small smile on Derek's face.


	2. Seriously, how does that story end?

"You punched me in the face while gesticulating wildly to a friend" AU

"And then out of nowhere comes another guy, who turned out to be the perp's accomplice that we hadn't been able to find any info on," Stiles explains to Scott, gesturing along with his story.

Scott stares at him, food momentarily forgotten and eyes wide. "But – but you were trapped between them in an alley, what'd you do?"

Grinning, Stiles points at Scott. "That is the fun part. I pull out my night stick and swing it over my shoulder –" he does the motion as he's explaining, only he must have misjudged how far back he swung because he feels the back of his hand connect with something fleshy at the same time he hears a pained grunt from behind him. Scott covers his mouth but fails to smother his laughter as Stiles turns around to apologize.

"Dude, I am so sorry, I didn't know there was anyone behind me." He reaches out to the man, who has _very_ nice eyes and the thickest eyebrows – to do what, he doesn't know – but the man backs away a step, lifting the hand not holding his nose.

"Shouldn't a cop have more situational awareness?" the guy grumbles, voice muffled.

Stiles rubs at the back of his head with a laugh. "Yeah, well, that's something I've never really been that good…at…" He drifts off as the guy takes his hand away from his face because _holy shit_ that is a gorgeous face – even with the caterpillar eyebrows encroaching on his indescribable eyes, the scowl, and the red nose that thankfully isn't bleeding.

The guy snorts and folds his arms. "Maybe that's how that other perp ended up sneaking up behind you."

"Maybe," Stiles admits with a shrug before leaning in. "And maybe because of that he underestimated what I can do, which cost both of them."

Humming as his eyes flit from Stiles' smirking lips to his eyes, the guy mutters, "Well, I'll be sure not to underestimate you then." His lips twitch into a semblance of a smile as his eyes focus back on Stiles'. "I'm Derek."

Smirk stretching into a grin, Stiles leans back only to step in closer, ignoring Scott behind him. "Hello, Derek. I'm Stiles." He offers his hand for a shake, which Derek takes in a firm hold – and doesn't let go after the appropriate number of seconds, making Stiles grin even wider. "How would you like to see what I can do so you don't underestimate me by accident?"

There is definitely a smile on Derek's face now – and _damn,_ Stiles will do whatever it takes to keep it there because those teeth and those laugh lines are to die for – as he says, "Only if you promise not to accidentally punch me in the dick because you forget I'm by you."


	3. Nice Displays Make a Happy Stiles

"I work at a department store and if you take out and unfold a shirt and then leave it one more time I'm going to stuff it down your throat" AU

Stiles watched from behind the counter, ringing up a customer, as the guy took a shirt from near the bottom of the pile, unfolded it to hold up against his (toned as hell) torso while looking down at it, shake his head, then set it on top of the pile without bothering to even try to fold it – and this is the _third time_ the guy has done this in the past ten minutes. One time Stiles may have been able to forgive, he actually doesn't mind folding shirts all that much once in awhile. But he was nearing the tail end of an eleven hour shift – with no breaks, mind you, because corporate for some reason thought it was a good idea to stick one person in the tiny store in the mall in the middle of summer – and Stiles has had to deal with countless old ladies shopping for their grandchildren, teenagers messing with his displays, kids leaving their sticky fingerprints on counters and windows. He does not have time for some picky asshole who doesn't seem to know how to fold a shirt and put it back in the stack where he found it – no matter how gorgeous his eyes are or how adorable his bunny teeth and the little furrow between his eyebrows are. No siree. This is the last straw.

So, smiling at the customer leaving the counter and wishing them a good day, Stiles takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, and goes to fix the three shirts the dude messed up. He's about to go confront him too – well, ask if he needs any help because the most Stiles can do while at work is be just the tiniest bit passive aggressive and even that's pushing it – when another old lady walks in and asks for his help to look for something for her granddaughter. Sighing, Stiles turns away from the guy and helps the lady.

It can't have taken him more than fifteen minutes tops, however, waving the old woman off with a grin, that Stiles turns back and finds five more – count 'em, _five_ – shirts piled haphazardly on five different shelves. And the guy is _still_ taking his sweet ass time, wandering around the store – which is only about 50 feet by 60 feet, okay, Stiles measured one day he was so bored.

So, after fixing the second round of shirts the guy left behind, Stiles finally gets the chance to head over to him with a huge, fake smile on his face. "Good evening, sir. My name's Stiles. Is there anything I can help you find?"

The guy barely glances up with a "no thank you" on his lips, Stiles can tell, when he does a small double take, his eyes widening, nostrils flaring, and smirk quirking his lips. "Actually," he corrects himself, "there might be something you can help me with, Stiles." Raising his eyebrows, Stiles waits for the man to elaborate. What he does is pull out yet _another_ shirt from the pile in front of him, unfold it with a flourish, and hold it up to himself. "How do you think this colour would work on me?"

"Well, sir," Stiles says, trying to move past the fact that a very attractive man is very possibly flirting with him right now – trying to remember that this man is the bane of his existence and will likely be the reason he has to stay later tonight to fix all the shirts, "grey is technically speaking a value, not a colour. But," he takes the shirt from the man's hands, folds it carefully, and puts it back in the correct place in the stack without having to check the sizes – he's been working here a long time, okay? – before grabbing a forest green Henley from a pile next to him and handing it to the man, "might I suggest this colour? I'm no clothing expert, I just work here during summer breaks, but I think this would really bring out the green in your eyes." He pulls out a blue Henley of the same size and also hands that to the man. "Or you could go with the bringing out the blue in your eyes." He pulls out a dark red one. "Or you can go with this, which would look awesome against your tan skin and black hair."

The guy hums, looking at all three shirts. He holds each one up to himself in turn, trying to decide. "I don't know…" He's about to just throw all three on the shelf – making that _eleven shirts_ _ **in a row**_ he has rejected and placed back without a care – when Stiles reaches out without thinking, grabbing the man's wrist in a tight grip. He looks back up at Stiles, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry," Stiles pushes out as he snatches his hand back and stuffs both in his pants pockets. "Please just – at least go try them on to try to help you decide. And if you don't like them you can either leave them in the dressing room or give them right to me, okay?" He crosses his fingers in his pockets, praying to whatever gods there are that the guy does not leave any more shirts just lying on the shelves.

Looking at him for a few moments, the man's smirk grows into a grin that Stiles could only describe as evil. "Okay, Stiles," he says, his voice practically purring out Stiles' name, forcing him to hold back a shiver. "I'll try these on – but only because you asked nicely." And with that he heads over to the dressing rooms, all three shirts in his hand.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Stiles goes through the store to make sure he didn't miss any other messed up shirt stacks – he didn't – then goes to stand behind the counter while he waits for the guy. A few minutes later he watches as the man comes out, eyes trained on Stiles like he's a delicious rabbit he's going to eat later, and throws the red Henley on the shelf with a smirk before walking up to the counter.

Clenching his fists, Stiles forces a smile. "Just the two, then?"

"Yep," the guy says with a smile, handing over the shirts and pulling out a wallet as Stiles rings them up. When Stiles tells him the total the guy pulls out a debit card – Derek S. Hale – then takes it back, signs the receipt, and picks up the bag. "Have a good evening, Stiles." He winks as over his shoulder as he leaves.

As soon as he's sure the guy is gone – and there aren't any customers walking past the store because the mall will be closing soon and the store is in a back corner anyhow – Stiles yells a few profanities. (Okay, they were all in Polish – just to be safe.)

"I swear to god, Erica, the guy did it on purpose," Stiles groans as Erica pours him another whiskey from behind the bar later that night. "He looked right at me the last time he did it!"

"Sure he did, Batman," Erica says in that placating tone she uses when she thinks Stiles is being ridiculous – and he admits, he usually is, except not this time. "Or maybe this was the fifth eleven-hour shift you've worked this week, with no break and probably three hours of sleep under your belt each night."

"Try six," Stiles mumbles into his glasses. Erica raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. "For the whole week."

Shaking her head, she points at him as she backs to the other side of the bar, where Boyd is beckoning her. "I'm cutting you off. You need to go home and get some fucking sleep."

Stiles waves her off as he downs the rest of his drink, leans over the bar to put his tip in the jar behind the register, then heads to the door. As he's about to open it and start walking back to his apartment a guy walks in, a familiar looking guy. Where has Stiles seen him before?

"Oh, hey Stiles," the guy - Derek says with an easy grin, his eyes lighting up and the laugh lines around them crinkling. "Getting a drink after work, huh? Wanna join me and –"

"You!" Stiles exclaims, poking him in the chest so hard the guy takes a step back, his smile fading. "You are a prick." Not waiting to let Derek respond, Stiles pushes past him and out the door, walking down the sidewalk toward his apartment.

He hasn't gone more than a few blocks when he hears footsteps running up behind him and a voice yelling, "Hey, wait!" Derek catches up with him easily, grabbing Stiles' elbow to pull him to a stop and turn Stiles so that they're facing each other. "What the hell was that? Did I do something to offend you?"

Stiles bursts out laughing, gesticulating wildly. "Did you offend me? Try messing up my shirt stacks and throwing your rejects back on top – which you did nine times, buddy. Nine. Now I can let once, maybe twice slide, but you're a grown ass man, I know you know how to fold clothes and how to read sizes.

"Then you go and throw another shirt onto a shelf – after I explicitly asked you to leave it in the dressing room or hand it to me if you didn't want it – all while staring at me with a smirk. That's just rude! I was about ready to take that shirt and either strangle you with it or stuff it down your throat!" Finished with his tirade, Stiles stands there breathing heavily, his face hot either from anger or embarrassment from the outburst, and runs his hands through his hair.

"I, uh…" Derek clears his throat and shrugs. "I'm sorry? Really! I am!" he rushes to add when Stiles glares and opens his mouth to say more. "It's just – I don't really shop for myself that often, so I already felt awkward and out of place, and then I saw you and I just," he shrugs again, "I guess I just reverted back to the old days, when I was a dick to people that I find… attractive."

Cocking his head, Stiles lets a grin spread across his face. "So what you're saying, Derek S. Hale, is that you were pulling my pigtails. Like a third grader."

Huffing, Derek takes a tentative step closer. "Do you make it a habit of memorizing names from customers' debit cards?"

Stiles shakes his head and he grabs a hold of the collar of Derek's shirt. "Only the ones who piss me off." He pulls Derek forward and kisses him hard on the mouth. Stepping back, he lets go and keeps walking. When Derek doesn't follow he calls over his shoulder, "Well c'mon! You might as well model those shirts you did buy to make it up to me!"

Derek comes up behind him and throws an arm around his shoulders. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?" he sighs.

"Nope," Stiles states, popping the 'p'.


	4. Jay Gatsby is a Creep

"You saw me reading the same book you did and we got into a heated discussion on how much it sucks" AU

In a back corner of the library by the biographies, where nobody goes, Stiles sits sideways in an armchair, his legs flung over the arm and _The Great Gatsby_ propped against his knees as he writes snarky, judgmental remarks in the margins and makes other marks with a pen – pink today. The pen cap is almost completely destroyed from how much he's been chewing on it. He's just getting to the part where Daisy goes over to Gatsby's house when a voice speaks up from behind him.

"I hope that's not a library book you're marking up," the light male voice says in a mock-serious tone.

Snorting as he comments on how (rightfully) awkward the whole situation is, Stiles replies, "No. Sadly I own this book." Tipping his head back as he talks around the pen cap, it falls from his mouth and onto the floor when he sets eyes on possibly the most stunning person he's ever met – and he grew up with Lydia and Danny as two of his closest friends.

The man raises his thick, black eyebrows, a smirk playing over his lips. "When is owning a book ever sad?"

"When it's probably one of the worst books ever written and this is the fifth time now you've been forced to read it," Stiles sighs, shifting to more easily pick up his pen cap and then face the man so Stiles can stare at his sharp cheekbones and jaw, covered in black scruff, and his amazing, indescribable eyes.

When Stiles shifted the booked closed over his finger, so when the man glances down he sees the cover. His face scrunches and he makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. "Oh god, _Gatsby_? You poor man. I've only had to read it twice and both times I wondered how it ever became known as 'the great American novel'." He sneers the phrase, using air quotes.

"Yes!" Stiles exclaims – as loudly as he reasonably can in a library – and gestures at the man. "Thank you!"

"The writing isn't that good, the plot makes no sense…" the man says and that sparks a long, heated discussion about how Nick must have been insane for sticking around for all of the shit. ("It's the only explanation," Stiles says and Derek - the man kindly provides after Stiles repeatedly call him 'dude' - nods in agreement.) Then they move on to Jay, Daisy, and Tom and how the supposed love triangle was one of the worst written.

"Seriously," Stiles snorts, "if having a creepy, unhealthy attachment to a woman that led to you changing your name and identity and doing all this terrible stuff so you could get rich and throw parties in hopes of her coming is considered romantic and the perfect relationship, I've clearly been doing it wrong. Must be why I'm perpetually single."

"I don't know about that," Derek says with a grin. "It's probably more because you gesture kind of wildly when you talk – especially when you're really into what you're saying – use a ridiculous amount of sarcasm, and tend to chew on whatever is closest to your mouth. And probably some other things."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "You got all that from one conversation about the suckage that is _Gatsby_?"

Derek shrugs. "I'm good with details," he smirks, "especially when the person I'm talking to is interesting. And attractive." He adds the last almost as an afterthought while his eyes examine Stiles' body – what he can see of it the way they're both sitting sideways in their chairs to face each other.

"Is that right…" Stiles mutters, leaning in closer. "How would you like to notice more details?"

Laughing, Derek gets up and offers Stiles his hand. "That was pretty smooth."

Grabbing Derek's hand as he stands up and stashes his pen and _The Great Gatsby_ in his messenger bag, Stiles winks. "You haven't seen smooth yet, big guy."

This time Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. "Shut up or I might change my mind."

"You would never," Stiles says confidently, backing away toward the front door.


End file.
